The Last Dragonlord
by Crevans the Poet Presents
Summary: The dragonlords are thought to be long dead, a race extinct long before our time, yet few know that the last dragonlord was alive during the time of Wergar, carving out his legacy on the eastern continent of Pekkir. This is his tale.
1. Runaway

Chapter 1

Runaway

No living soul in the seven realms of Lyssia, nor the Cluster Isles nor Bast, know of the true fate of the last weredragon, who is said to have died hundreds of years before the Great Feast which saw the birth of the werelords that rule now, but that, in fact, is far from the truth.

Though none knew of it, the last dragonlord was alive in the time of Wergar, living on the undiscovered eastern continent of Pekkir, and this is the story of his last days, and the fall of the greatest therian race to ever inhabit the world.

…

The roars of the black bearlord continued to echo through the forest as the youthful dragonlord dashed through the trees, frenzied hunters pursuing him as every turn through the accursed woodlands, desperate for the draconi's flesh. Llyw resented the northlander's foul cannibalistic tendencies, and he had never intended to become one of their potential victims, his escape only made possible by Tsar Styr's young daughter, Sashenka, and Llyw's roguish charms, though he had only been running for a matter of minutes when he heard his ex-captor's hunting horn sound behind him, and the youthful-faced draconi counted himself lucky that

Without warning, a barbed arrow slammed into Llyw's left shoulder blade, throwing him into the snow beneath his feet. He heard a shout come out from behind him as whoever had fired that lucky shot cried out to his friends in jubilation, and the dragonlord soon found himself surrounded by the Tsar's men.

"Good shooting Felix," one of the hunter exclaimed as they rushed in to retrieve their meal, though they arrived to find the idiot youth gone, a blood stain and the broken shaft of Felix's arrow all that was left.

"Are you sure you got him Felix?" another hunter asked, clearly annoyed at his fellow hunter as he turned to confront him, only to find Felix gone, just as their prey had.

Silence settled over the group of hunters, two dozen in total, as they tried to work out what had happened to their friend, before the oldest and most experiences of the hunters gathered drew his sword, drawing the attention of the others.

"Stay together and get ready. Danil, Andrei, get your sword out and follow me, the rest of you, remain here, we could be dealing with another damn werewolverine,"

The hunters who remained with their bows at the ready visibly shuddered at that, fearing their fate if the warriors of the pretender Tsar, Jarek the Wolverine, were to attack them so far from the support of their ursanthrope lords, unknowing that the fate that awaited them was much bigger, and much more deadly.

The one who had spoken, alongside Danil and Andrei, fanned out through the woods, getting further and further away from the lesser hunters. They had barely trudged through 50 metres of snow before the screams began.

Llyw was a blur of blood, snow and red scales as he tore into the unfortunate hunters, his razor-sharp claws ripping through flesh, tendon and bone with ease. The first two were crushed by his densely-muscled legs, bones breaking with an audible _snap_ as the draconi dropped drown from the trees above. The rest only lasted a few seconds, their fearful screams cut short as their now-transformed opponent tore them limb from limb, staining the snow a bright red as the steaming bodies pumped blood onto the forest floor.

By the time the three sent out to search for Felix had returned, the damage was done.

The weredragon was gone.

…

Llyw cried out once again as the pain in his shoulder fired up another time, glancing over to where the arrowhead was still embedded deep in his shoulder blade. The Northlanders' arrows were not easy to remove; their serrated edges making sure of that, Llyw would have tried to take it out had he the right expertise, yet he had limited knowledge of any medical matter, more used to causing pain than relieving it.

The hapless hunter laid out on the snow next to Llyw awoke with a start, looking around to try and work out where he was, before his eyes settled on the weredragon sitting beside him. Felix attempted to get up and run from his captor but found himself held back by the draconi's strong grip, his wrist trapped in a vice-like hold as he felt the tendons straining and the bones shifting uncomfortably.

"Don't even try, hunter, or you shall face the same fate as your friends," Llyw said calmly, still focusing on his shoulder and the arrowhead embedded deep inside it "tell me, what is your people's tradition involving the death of their fellows?"

"W-why d-do you ask?" Felix replied, fear and confusion apparent in his trembling voice.

Llyw then turned to the captive hunter, his face and neck still coated in the blood of the others that had gone out to capture him, before smiling, allowing just enough of the dragon to come for his teeth to sharpen into wickedly sharp needles, causing his captive to flinch visibly.

"I fear there may not be much left to bury, or burn, or eat," the weredragon eventually replied, still smiling "I seem to have taken most of the prime cuts,"

The hunter's face visibly paled as he looked down at the growing talons on Llyw's hand, which still held the captive's wrist tightly. The draconi chuckled, allowing the dragon to recede, before releasing his grip, smiling again, this time with his human teeth on show.

"Sit," Llyw commanded, watching as the frightened hunter did as he was told before he continued speaking "how is it that a lynxlord such as you came into the service of Tsar Styr?"

Taken aback, Felix did not know what to say, the dragonlord's question catching him off-guard. Before he could reply, however, the peculiar therian interrupted.

"Sorry, I should introduce myself. I am Llyw ap Gruffud, the last of the dragonlords, blight of the black bears, and shadow of Pekkir. Pray, cat, what is your name?"

"I-I am Felix Baldric, y-youngest son of Jarl Yeruslan of Frostmead Hall, s-servant of the rightful r-ruler of the Northlands, Tsar Styr the Great," Felix replied, stumbling over the words as he maintained to look fearfully into Llyw's blank eyes.

"There is no need to be afraid, cat, I will not harm you, not without reason," Llyw laughed, noticing the felinthrope's terrified look "I have no quarrel with your kind, Yeruslan is not as aggressive towards me as that bastard Styr,"

Felix did not speak for some time, unsure what to say in reply to Llyw's words, and was grateful when the draconi continued the conversation for him.

"You still haven't answered my first question, cat,"

"What was that?"

"How did you come into the service of Tsar Styr?"

Silence descended once more upon the two as Llyw waited for an answer, whilst Felix sat in the snow, trying to calm himself and clear his mind before replying.

"I serve Styr as part of the White Frost agreement. My father, Jarl Yeruslan, sided with Jarek the Wolverine during the War of Twenty Snowfalls, his tree fighters wreaking havoc amongst the black bear's forces before Styr captured my father's wife, Grażyna, in a daring raid that cost the Tsar his two eldest sons.

"After Grażyna's capture, Yeruslan was forced to surrender in order to keep her alive, and without my people's support, Jarek's forces were defeated, and have since been driven back into these very forests," Felix looked around at that, suddenly fearing that there might be a vengeful mustenthrope watching over them now, prompting another chuckle from Llyw.

"Don't worry, cat, the wolverines are not my enemies, and if they were, they would know to stay far from me, Jarek has seen me in combat and both respects and fears me in equal measure because of that," the dragonlord laughed, slapping Felix's back.

The ridicule of his captor began to enrage the lynxlord now, and Felix rose to his feet, staring angrily at the wounded draconi.

"Why must you make fun of me, dragon, is the torment that I am now alone in this frozen woodland with a stranger who could kill me at any moment not enough for you? Why did you keep me alive, even after I wounded you with my arrow? How did you know I was a lynxlord? How do you know Jarek? Answer me or I pray to Brenn I will stop at nothing to see you dead at either my hand or Tsar Styr's!" Felix shouted, spittle flying from his mouth as whiskers began to appear on his cheeks and his teeth and nails began to lengthen into deadly points.

Llyw rose as well to look into the comparatively short felinthrope's eyes, his own filling with rage as they turned a deep shade of yellow, and his skin simultaneously taking a green hue as his own fangs and claws growing out just a few inches, though more than enough to scare the captive werelynx back into submission. The draconi snarled at Felix, momentarily thinking about killing the foolish boy where he stood before immediately passing up on the notion, deciding instead to answer his questions.

"I kept you alive because I will not kill another therianthrope without reason enough. I have no quarrel with the lynxlords, the only therian I would intentionally kill being Tsar Styr.

"You fired the arrow from the trees, and your accuracy was uncanny, it would take no genius to work out that you're a lynxlord, only they could do that as you did.

"Jarek's ancestors took me in when I was exiled from the continent to the west alongside my people many generations ago, and the dragonlords, or what was left of them, have remained fast friends with the wolverines since then, exchanging their knowledge in return for the mustenthropes' silence,"

Llyw sat again, gesturing for Felix to do so, though the felinthrope chose to remain standing, a new wave of questions on the edge of his quivering lips, though he only chose to ask one.

"You said you came here many generations ago with other dragonlords, but surely that would make you centuries old, if what you say is true, and yet you only look a few summers at most my elder. How old are you, dragon?"

Llyw sat on the snowy forest floor, eyes downturned as his mind sunk back into old, painful memories. Memories of injustice and pain and sadness and death. Memories of the downfall of his race that would soon end in his death. Memories of who he was, the last of the dragonlords.

"I have lived for many centuries on this world. First in Lyssia, then here, and I have many memories of those I once knew and those I have lost. Those I once loved, and cared for, have been dead a long time, and all I have left is my own sorry life, and the fate of my people, placed on my shoulders until the day I die,"

Felix watched, simultaneously surprised and saddened by Llyw's words, as a single tear ran down the draconi's cheek, falling into the soft snow as decades of sadness poured out from his shaking body.

"I have seen over four hundred summers and winters since the day my people arrived here when I was a mere babe-in-arms. Since then we have dwindled, the other races too afraid to truly accept us into their society. Every race that has allied with us have either cast us out before too long or left us for our enemies, of which there have always been many, Tsar Jarek's kind being the only exception,"

Llyw was wracked with grief as sobs began to travel up and down his muscular frame. How the foolish young lynxlord had brought him to this state he did not fully understand, though he allowed the pain of loss to empty out of him, his tears flowing freely onto the forest floor.

"I have failed my race, cat," the dragonlord cried, looking up into Felix's eyes, the felinthrope still torn between sadness and anger as he too thought of the mistakes he had made in his comparatively short life. Serving the black bearlords, thinking the escaped weredragon was little more than a powerless wanderer as he relished the hunt to find him, mistaking his quarry and captor as little more than a heartless bastard even as the draconi lost all semblance of composure as he lost himself in his pain and memories. Yet the captive lynxlord knew that his sorrow would not, could not ever match that of Llyw.

Felix slowly knelt down in the snow, embracing the sobbing dragonlord as he tried to comfort one who he once thought he would come to hate. Llyw accepted the comfort, realising that instead of just finding another unfortunate werelord, caught up in the politics of this accursed lands, he had found a friend.


	2. A New Threat

Chapter 2

A New Threat

Months had passed since the escape of Llyw ap Gruffud and the disappearance of the unfortunate felinthrope, Felix Baldric, who had been feared dead by black bearlord and lynxlord alike since that fateful night that had seen the death of two dozen of Styr's best warriors. The frequency and destruction of attacks from Tsar Jarek's werewolverines had increased greatly, those loyal to the black bear that controlled the Northlands sleeping fitfully at night as dreams of their deaths at the hands of Jarek haunted their minds.

As for Llyw and his new companion, the two unlikely friends had travelled deep into the Pale Forest, the woods that covered the entirety of the Northlands, sowing disorder and fear amongst the townsfolk of Tsar Styr's territory as they hoped to take apart the black bear's empire from the inside, causing the ageing therian much annoyance as more and more communities refused to leave their hovels and work in the fields in fear of attack from the wolverinelords, starving Styr and his fellow ursanthropes as they remained in the grand hall of Icemark, watching as their realm crumbled.

But as the winter months came to a close, and the few short weeks of sun brought new life to the Northlands, the black bearlords struck out at the werewolverines, killing many of their numbers as the war beneath the evergreens entered a new era of warfare.

Jarek had gathered his forces, recruiting from all across the Northlands where an ally could be found. The noble elklords came from the great plains to the east, whilst from the coastland in the west the white eagles flocked to Jarek's aid, alongside a strange, foreign force, the nomadic white wolves, a noble race that had fled from some war that had raged on the western continent for decades, bringing with them many human warriors that fought with the ferocity of the ursanthropes and the grace of the lynxlords, inspiring the other humans that fought for the great wolverine to greater acts of courage and strength.

But for every dozen barbarian warlords, there was a therianthrope, towering over the battlefields with their great antlers shredding lesser men to pieces, or their fearsome roars scaring even the bravest of men from the fray, each impressive show of strength on one side matched by that of a rival werelord on the other, as the feline lynxlord and elusive batlords fought on the side of Styr, alongside skilful white foxlords and powerful harelords, each adding their own unique element to the field of battle, engaging in titanic duels with Jarek's allies.

No warriors were more fearsome, however, than the two Tsars themselves, Jarek and Styr both wreaking havoc amongst their enemy's forces, sending whole units of armoured warriors into the halls of Brenn, slaying any and all werelord who would stand against them, broken bones and sacred blood spattering the ground all that they left of their unfortunate enemies.

But Jarek still had one secret weapon. A fearsome warrior of ages past, decades older than him yet blessed with the strength and deadly, cold, precision of any younger werelord. This weapon had remained behind enemy lines for many weeks, accompanied by a young lynxlord that found companionship in the deadly warrior, and it was now there turn to strike.

Llyw was to head to Icemark, to end this war once and for all.

…

The cover from the large clump of shrubbery did well to hide Felix as Llyw went out to hunt; making sure the young lynxlord evaded the eyes of the Styr's men. The two had been gradually picking apart the resolve of their enemy's people using their own individual skills, Felix acting as a weary traveller with tales of death at the hands of Jarek's armies whilst Llyw stalked the edges of each village, leaving the bloody remains of the town's livestock where they could be found, the simple, but effective, plan turning the people against Styr, one frightened hovel at a time.

Movement to Felix's left caught the felinthrope's eyes as one of the wood rabbits that inhabited the forested areas of the Northlands hopped out of a nearby bush. Convenient, Felix thought, Llyw was taking too long with his damned hunt; this would be a welcome meal, even if he had to eat it raw.

As the lynxlord prepared to pounce on his unaware prey, he noticed something was off. Most rabbits only moved in short bursts, as it was a better way to keep in energy during the warm summer months, but this one kept going, almost as if it was running away from something.

Running away!

The steel arrow ran straight through the rabbit's large, furry body, pinning it to the warm, wet forest floor as is struggled in vain, its last breaths coming out in ragged gasps whilst its warm blood ran in a steady stream from where the arrow pierced its chest.

"Got the bastard!"

The cry came from beyond the bloodied shrubbery, as a large, unshaven man burst through it, spittle flying from his mouth as he slavered over the corpse of his quarry.

"Keep quite Jaecer! We're still hunting for something of decent size here!"

The second voice came from behind the big man, whom Felix assumed was Jaecer, from an altogether different voice. This voice belonged to a woman, and had an almost mystical air to it, as if the person who spoke it was some sort of magister, though the lynxlord assumed this was not the case as the speaker came into view.

She was tall, taller than the indigenous hunter, and her skin was slightly tanned, with a leathery texture, similar to the spice traders that sometimes came up from the south with their caravans and expensive wears that Tsar Styr frequently indulged himself in, though there was one thing that proved that this, too, was not her origin.

It was the war paint that gave it away, bands of red, white and black paint that varied horizontally down her youthful yet experienced face. The only peoples that used such practises were the werelords of the Old Steppes, the huge areas of woodless grassland that expanded from the Northlands to the lands of the spice traders, home to some of the most fearsome and dangerous werelords known to those on the continent of Pekkir.

As Felix studied the features of this new and dangerous arrival, he became unaware of all else in his surrounding, so when he noticed a figure sneaking around behind him, he nearly cried out before a hand clamped over his mouth, stifling whatever it was that would have given away his position.

"What are you doing, Felix?" Llyw's recognisable voice hissed in the felinthrope's ear "what if I had been with that hunting party? You'd have been captured, or killed, or worse,"

"Sorry, I was distracted," Felix whispered, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the hunters as they slowly skinned the rabbit, preparing it to be hung onto one of their laden hunting belts.

"Distracted?" Llyw retorted, angrily "if we lose you, then whatever chip we had to bargain with your father would be gone, and this war would become a lot harder for Jarek and his allies,"

Llyw nodded in the direction of the other person that had snuck up on Felix as the lithe figure of an elklord snuck forward through the undergrowth until it was crouched next to the lynxlord.

"Her name is Shakarri. She is a doglord, a coyote, fearsome hunters and damned good fighters as well," the stranger muttered under his breath, studying the tanned hunter "and if Styr has managed to recruit the coyotes, then we could be in much more trouble than previously thought…"

…

The command tent was flooded with a piercing ominous atmosphere as the werelords that had gathered at Jarek's command poured over their extensive maps, each formulating their own plan to deal with this deadly new twist to the tale of their damned war.

The fighting had remained even since the werelords supporting the ambitious wolverinelord had answered his call late the previous winter, each marching their forces through the taiga of the Northlands to support Jarek's claim to the throne, though they all knew that if the reports of coyotelords fighting for Tsar Styr were true, it may not remain even for much longer.

"I suggest we lead our forces to the fortress-towns that watch over the Great Silk Roads. If we capture them, then we would not only control the spice traders, but we could also hold back any more of the coyotelords if they attempted to cross into our lands," a strong, grizzled lord suggested.

"No. You of all people should know the strength of those towns, Eirik, your people ruled over them for many generations, and they never fell once, no matter what force attacked it," a much slimmer, more athletic lord replied.

"And you of all people should know how it was the treachery of your own brother that saw them taken from my people, Hjalmar," Eirik growled, his one good eye staring deep into the soul of the harelord as he rose to his full height from his seat "do not speak to me of what once was!"

"I was torn from what was rightfully mine by Thrand just as you were," Hjalmar returned, rising with Eirik to square off with the stronger, taller warrior, his head hardly reaching the oxlord's shoulders "that bastard killed his own father, my father, so he could steal the lands that were rightfully mine in return for Styr's support!"

"And those lands shall be yours once more, when we have won this war, but we currently have more pressing matters,"

The gathered lords all dropped to their knees as Jarek entered the huge tent, the wolverinelord towering over even Eirik as he strode towards his loyal allies, flanked by his people's ancient friend, Llyw ap Gruffud, the venerable dragonlord imposing himself on the lesser werelords.

"Cease your arguing!" Llyw ordered, staring down Eirik and Hjalmar where they knelt on the ground. "None of you know true loss. None of you know true betrayal. My people lost all that was theirs two thousand years ago when your races were little more than collections of barbaric, human warlords, betrayed by our greatest lord in the very act that saw your creation. You know nothing,"

The gathered werelords remained silent for some time, still kneeling before the two powerful therianthropes stood before them, before Jarek ordered them to stand once again.

"We have all lost much at the hands of Styr and his followers, but it remains true that none have lost as much as our friend and ally, Llyw," Jarek proclaimed, nodding in the draconi's direction as he did "so keep your petty arguments to yourself.

"Now friends, sit with me, and we shall speak of what we must do to deal with this alarming new threat,"

…

The discussions lasted for hours, each werelord offering their own opinion as the sun began to sink low in the evening sky and night began in the Northlands. Eventually it was decided that the fortress-town would indeed be the targets, as originally suggested by Eirik, but instead of the siege originally planned by the Oxlord, it was decided that a small, elite group of infiltrators would work their way through the defences of the formidable fortress-town, taking it from the inside…

...

"Are you sure about this, Felix?"

The seven men that waited to ride for Redhold, home of Thrand the harelord, bowed as Jarek approached, flanked by Llyw and Eirik.

"Yes, lord Jarek,"

Felix glanced at those that would accompany him on his risky mission: Ragnar, the fierce, human warrior and his two equally imposing men, Jarold and Valfrid; Freida, the sharp-eyed wereowl renowned for both her beauty and silent deadliness; Stille, the silent assassin loyal to the oxlords that knew their old lands better than anyone else; and lastly Hjalmar himself, the battle-hardened Harelord insisting that he lead the party in order to confront his traitorous brother himself.

"I could still take your place, you know, you don't have to risk your life to take the fortress-towns, even Eirik knows that," Llyw explained, gesturing towards the towering oxlord.

"It is true, Felix. I may find it hard to forgive him for what his family did to mine, but Hjalmar is formidable enough to lead this group without your help," the wereox confirmed, meeting Felix's determined gaze.

"Whilst I do not doubt the fighting ability of Ragnar, Jarold and Valfrid, and I know for a fact that it would be a great task to find a better assassin than Stille, Hjalmar still need someone able to talk his way through the guards, many still do not know that I have gone missing, indeed, Tsar Styr and my father, Jarl Yeruslan, had agreed to not speak of it, in fear of ruining their names," Felix calmly replied, looking down upon the three powerful werelords from atop of his mount.

"Besides, are you not needed to deal with the werecoyotes that have already entered the Northlands, Llyw? I am sure that it would be better if it was I who went with this party, for the sake of our other goals in this war,"

Jarek, Llyw and Eirik exchanged glances and they realised the truth in the young lynxlord's words, the awkward silence prompting Hjalmar, who had been listening in on the conversation, to speak out.

"As much as I appreciate your opinions on this matter, my lords, and I realise that Felix clearly means a lot to you, Llyw, it has already been decided, and we must leave here before sunset,"

"Yes. Go, Hjalmar, we shall not keep you here any longer," Jarek answered, before looking towards Felix, the youthful felinthrope still waiting for further word "you have my blessing to accompany Hjalmar's party tasked with capturing Redhold, and I wish you the best of luck, may Brenn be with you,"

"And may he be with you too, Tsar Jarek," Felix replied, surprised to see a flicker of annoyance cross Llyw's face at mention of the ancient god of the werelords, and he made a self-note to ask him about it when, _if_ , he ever returned to Jarek's war camp, before riding after Hjalmar into the taiga wilderness of the Northlands.

…

"Can we trust him, Llyw, a son of one of our many enemies?" Jarek enquired, pouring the strong, alcoholic substance into the draconi's wooden cup.

"I would trust him with my life, Jarek, and considering who I am, that is saying something," came the reply, Llyw swilling the transparent liquid around in his cup before taking a swig.

"I know that, Llyw, but he is young, easy to persuade. What if this plan failed, and he was captured? If he wasn't tortured then executed by Thrand, then he would be turned against us. He would return to us only to strike us dead in the night!"

"Worry not, old friend, I know him well enough to know that he would never fall for such rumours, he has travelled with me for months, and he is my friend, sometimes the only one I feel I have left on this accursed continent,"

Jarek ignored the slight against him and his homeland before continuing with another question.

"When I saw off Felix, you seemed to, flinch, almost, when we named the god of the werelords, Brenn the Mighty. Is there something you wish to tell me? Your people were still around when he created the therianthropes of today, weren't they?"

Llyw remained silent for a few moments, lost in thought, before his expression suddenly turned from one of deep reminiscence to anger as the draconi rose from his seat in the planning tent to glare down at Jarek.

"I wish to tell you nothing!" Llyw yelled, surprising the wolverinelord as the dragonlord's skin began to take a deep red hue, his teeth elongating and his eyes turning a luminescent shade of yellow "And if you value your life, you would not mention Brenn again in my presence!"

At that, Llyw stormed away from Jarek, leaving the mustenthrope to wonder what it was about Brenn that caused such anger, the question troubling him deep into the night and for many weeks afterwards.

But what shocked him more was that Llyw, his old friend and ally that he had known his entire life, refused to speak to the werewolverine for all that time, instead choosing to remain far from the camp, hunting the creatures of the Northlands, and avoiding the other werelords as much as possible, a look of anger permanently etched on his face.

Llyw had a secret, and for the first time in many decades, Jarek feared him…


	3. Areas of Conflict

Chapter 3

Areas of Conflict

"What do you see, Freida?" Hjalmar called up to the circling wereowl as she surveyed the area surrounding the werehare and his small group of allies.

Freida swooped down from her position high above the forest trees, gliding without any audible sound before landing softly on the earthy forest floor, her wings folding behind her back as her therian form sunk back beneath her human beauty.

"A hunting party are scouting around just east of us, and I have seen many others throughout the woodlands," the strigithrope gasped, exhausted from her flight "Whether or not they are hunting for meat or for us I cannot tell, though they are well armed, and I fear that they are also accompanied by one of the coyotelords, which could prove… a problem,"

"Damn! That puts them right in our path," Hjalmar exclaimed, a look of anger etched onto his face "how far away are they?"

"Not far, I fear they could be on us in a matter of minutes,"

"Then we must face them head on," Ragnar interrupted, the fur-clad raider clearly itching for a fight, as he had been since the moment the group had set off from Jarek's camp.

"No, that would give them a chance to alert Thrand's forces to our presence in his lands, and our mission would be finished before it had even began," Hjalmar answered, staring down the human warrior "if he knows we're out here then he'll shut down Redhold and the other fortress-towns he rules over. Nothing will get in or out, including us, regardless of Felix's negotiating abilities," with his last words the werehare threw a glare in his young companion's direction, the tension between the two almost palpable.

Since the moment Hjalmar and his party had set off from Tsar Jarek's camp, the aged harelord had never given Felix a moment out of his sight, the distrust for the otherwise peaceful werelynx clear for the whole group to see, borne entirely of Yeruslan's betrayal at the height of and it was spreading, something that troubled the felinthrope greatly.

Freida was the first to follow Hjalmar, the wereowl having known him since they were mere babe-in-arms, and quickly grew to distrust Felix after just a few days, and two of the three sea raiders, Jarold and Valfrid, soon followed, though their distrust was borne more of fear for the werelords as a whole more than anything else. It quite frankly shocked Felix to think that there was a society of mortals whom rejected the therianthropes in their entirety, especially in an area so close to the territory belonging to the wereorcas, the deadly rulers of the seas the sea raiders frequented many a time.

However, Felix still had two allies in the small, and increasingly hostile, party: Stille, the apparently mute assassin whom always seemed surrounded by an aura of deadly potential, which he had yet to see put to good use; and Ragnar, the leader of the three elite raiders, whom always seemed completely unafraid of the werelords he accompanied, in stark contrast of the two men under his command.

It was the second that spoke now, seemingly unnerved by neither Hjalmar's hostility towards his young ally or his dismissal of the ambitious raider's plan.

"Regardless of the consequences, we have no choice but to fight the hunting party Freida sighted, they block our path and there are too many other groups out there to go around!"

"As much as I hate having to agree with him, the raider has a valid point, Hjalmar, there are no other options but to fight," Freida agreed, acknowledging Ragnar even as she looked down upon him.

"But to face them head-on would still be a mistake,"

The entire group started as Stille, whom they all had previously assumed was little more than a mute mercenary, spoke up, his voice low and ragged, as if every word scratched and tore at his throat. The black-robed assassin had kept himself apart from the rest of the group for most of their ride, keeping his mount deliberately behind the rest of his newfound allies, and to hear him suddenly speak out at such a time surprised them all.

"Do not give them the advantage of a fair fight, we do not know their size or strength, and there could've been more men scouting ahead of the main group that Freida did not see,"

"Then what do you suggest, assassin?" Ragnar asked, still thinking his idea of a straight fight the better option.

"We hide, and we wait,"

…

"Shield wall!"

Llyw's call was barely audible over the sounds of clashing blades, screeching steel and horrendous, pained cries, but the embattled defenders of the buckling line still managed to form into their positions, bracing themselves as the Styr's forces crashed into them once again.

The black bear had been relentless in his attack, countless many of his elite 'obsidian claw' soldiers constantly pounding at Jarek's smaller army of longclaw warriors; it had only been the defensive tactics of Eirik that had seen each attack repelled, though there was little left of the beleaguered defenders.

The sounds of battle reached a new crescendo as the next wave of enemies crashed into the hastily-arranged shield wall, steel flashing in the sunlight as men on both sides were cut down in a tide of metal and blood. The first few of Styr's obsidian claws fell instantly as spears tore through gaps in their armour, before the battle began in earnest.

Llyw watched from his position in the rear line as one of the longclaw warriors became drawn deep into the opposing line, and could only stare in concealed anguish as the man was surrounded and cut down by his opponents. Further along the line the obsidian claws had nearly been thwarted already, thanks in no small part to the towering presence of Greipr, the elklord, whom had been with Llyw on the day they had discovered the presence of werecoyotes in the Northlands. Both of the cervinthrope's fearsome antlers were coated with blood as he roared triumphantly, his taiga fighters picking off the last of Styr's men with thrown axes and spears, making sure none returned to their lines,

However, elsewhere, the battle was not going so well.

"Fall back! Fall back to the rear lines!"

The cry had come from the far left of the battle line, where Jarek himself fought alongside his men, and the man who had sounded it ran towards Llyw, a deep gash running from his forehead to left cheek and his right arm hanging limply at his side.

"My lord!" he shouted "Tsar Styr himself led an attack on our position! Jarek ordered me to sound the retreat but chose to stay in order to hold the enemy back, you must help him!"

Llyw did not require any further encouragement. He drew Eldsvåda, a kindjal sword gifted to him by Jarek, from its sheath at his side, the white steel of the beautiful blade gleaming in the sunlight, its abnormal size compared to the human soldiers' swords testament to the warrior who was to carry it.

First the scales began to appear, Llyw's skin turning a deep shade of red as he allowed the change to engulf him. Next his face twisted into a long snout bristling with razor-sharp teeth, his eyes turning into a shade of bright yellow and hid gait changing from a run to a bound as wings began to appear through gaps in the draconi's armour, the beast preparing to take flight.

It had always been said that no race is more deadly in combat than the dragonlords, their superior size strength and speed lending them an advantage no other werelord could match. Llyw had never been trained to fight with his abilities, his race having already mostly died out by the time he reached maturity, but that did not stop him from wreaking havoc amongst his opponents, as he did now.

The first few men to notice Llyw did so as they died, their bodies shredded by the transformed weredragon as he crashed into them. He barely felt their blows and stabs, his hard scales turning aside most attacks, whilst any attempt at a second swing was always cut short by the draconi, razor claws, powerful jaws or the precise strikes of the Eldsvåda, that now appeared small in the hands of the dragonlord, tearing apart any human with enough bravery – or stupidity – to come close to Llyw. Within seconds the ranks of steel-clad obsidian claws were buckling under the pressure of this opponent, as piles of torn limbs and bloody torsos began to form around the weredragon.

It was then that Llyw spotted Jarek, engaged with a multitude of human enemies, his inferior therianthropic abilities unable to respond to each blow as effectively as the dragonlord's as the countless hours of ceaseless battle began to exhaust the wolverinelord. Llyw knew that his old friend could not fight for much longer, but found himself cut off by a much greater threat.

"Dragon!"

"Yeruslan…"

Despite his age, Jarl Yeruslan, lynxlord of Frostmead, still moved with the grace and power of his kind. The werelynx's black, white and brown fur was guarded by a thick, steel carapace that kept his torso safe from attack, whilst blood coated the twin axes of the lynxlords, Kraftig and Stål, the curved edges of each ancient as sharp as the day they were crafted.

"We meet at last! Tsar Styr has told me much about you," Yeruslan exclaimed, glaring at Llyw with rage-filled eyes as he strode through the ranks of obsidian claws that surrounded his opponent "he told me how you coerced his daughter into escaping with your silver tongue, how you tore apart his men as if they were rag dolls,"

Yeruslan now stood face-to-face with Llyw, still holding the much larger dragonlord's gaze with his own.

"He told me how you killed my son,"

Without warning, Kraftig slashed towards Llyw's head, only prevented from decapitating the dragonlord by a swift parry from Eldsvåda as he jumped away from the swing. Yeruslan continued to rush forward, both of his axes coming to bear as he relentlessly swung at his son's murderer.

"This is for Felix!" the enraged werelynx cried as the axes crashed down just inches away from where Llyw once stood as the dragonlord jumped away from the blow, yet he did not choose to turn Eldsvåda against his attacker.

"Styr lies to you!" Llyw yelled as he avoided another rage-filled attack "Felix's body was never found!"

"Do you take me for a fool, dragon?!" Yeruslan replied, once again swinging his axes towards the draconi "you killed him, just as you did the rest of Styr's men!"

The next blow swung down closer than the others, and Llyw was forces to bring up Eldsvåda to keep the axes from tearing through his scales, Yeruslan's face now inches away from his.

"I did not kill you son, Yeruslan," Llyw grunted, his arms straining under the pressure of the lynxlord's blow "I would never kill another therian,"

"Then where is he?" Yeruslan replied, pressing down harder on the shaft of Kraftig and Stål as the curved, white blades edged closer and closer to Llyw's head "why is he not safe in Frostmead, where he should be?"

"I cannot say," Llyw stated, glancing over Yeruslan's shoulder to see Jarek struggling to cope with the onslaught of blows coming from the obsidian claws that surrounded him.

"And I don't have time for this,"

Huge, leathery wings extended from where they hid, folded on Llyw's back. With a final push he managed to shake off Yeruslan, before his wings began to beat, slowly lifting the dragonlord in the air, far above his grounded opponent.

From this point, far above the battlefield, he could see the whole of Jarek's line as it pushed back the current wave of obsidian claws. The sections of line under the management of Eirik and Greipr had already seen off the attackers and now turned on those attacking their allies. Elsewhere, the far right fought a hard battle against a huge force of tree fighters from Frostmead, the expert archers always seeming to find their target whilst Jarek's men replied with thrown spears, each side seemingly balanced against the other, though the tree fighters greatly outnumbered their opponents.

However, that was not Llyw's current concern. He looked down at where he last saw Jarek, and caught glimpse of his old friend as the werewolverine towered above his human opponents. Despite this it was clear that Jarek was struggling under the mass of armoured men that came at him from all angles, each shining blade tearing bloody wounds in his furred, matted flesh that the superhuman healing powers each therian possessed struggled to keep up with.

But the tides were about to turn.

…

Few people, therian or otherwise, have ever seen a dragonlord in stoop. None that have ever faced such an attack have ever lived to tell the tale of the sheer force of the impact that would crush bones and crack the ground itself.

In the legends there are tales of draconi that would split mountains in twain with the force of their stoops, and that is was the dragon's power that created the volcanoes that dotted the Firelands of Southern Pekkir.

Legends, they say.

Fact, Llyw knew.

Coming down from where he flew above the battlefield, Llyw was little more than a red blur, his wings tucked close to his back as he accelerated to unbelievable speed, the massed ranks of Styr's obsidian claws his target.

The almighty impact could be felt from the opposite side of the battlefield where Eirik and Greipr fought to relieve the buckling lines on the right. One moment all they could hear was the clashing of steel and the sounding of war-horns, the next they were blown off their feet as something _or someone_ hit the ground with such force to topple nearby trees and send men tumbling off their feet.

"The dragon strikes!" Eirik yelled, clambering to his feet as he rallied his men, Greipr doing the same further down the line as it was the turn of Styr's forces to buckle.

Over where a crater now lay in the centre of the obsidian claws' ranks, Llyw slowly rose to his feet, smiling as he saw the carnage he had caused with one simple attack, lifeless corpses visible all around the cavernous hole in the ground that the draconi had created.

But Jarek was still in danger. The obsidian claws were beginning to rise too, turning their attentions back to the grounded werewolverine, who had yet to rise from where he lay, beaten and bloodied, on the ground.

Llyw moved quickly, Eldsvåda out of her sheath and slashing through the first ranks of enemies in an instant, the air filling with fine, red mist that surrounded the enraged dragonlord as he made his way towards his wounded friend. Within a matter of seconds Llyw was at Jarek's side, Eldsvåda coated in blood and rivulets of the crimson substance dropping from his teeth and claws.

The werewolverine still did not move, and so did not resist when Llyw took him in his grip, once again unfurling his massive wings as he took off once again, carrying the wounded jarl, and the waning hopes of the Northlands, in his clawed grip.


End file.
